


The Hearts of Men

by litbeyondmeasure



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU, Action/Adventure, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Arthur Knows About Morgana's Magic (Merlin), BBC, Friends to Lovers, Identity Reveal, M/M, Magic, Marriage, Married Couple, Master/Servant, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Merthur - Freeform, Pining Arthur, Pining Merlin (Merlin), Protective Arthur, Revenge, Romance, Sick Merlin (Merlin)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:34:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24073039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/litbeyondmeasure/pseuds/litbeyondmeasure
Summary: He pushed up his crown with a crooked smile that sent Arthur's stomach into cartwheels. It was much too big, and the previous utterance of the reason being that it was proof of Arthur's big head slid aside at the spark that danced across Merlin's eyes.When Arthur Pendragon finds his servant tied to a stake on a trek through the kingdom, his heart is left shattered for reasons he can't explain. And, as time wears on, his feelings flourish into something deeper than friendship. Try as he might, he cannot prevail in this particular battle. With everything to prove as a monarch and even more to lose, Arthur must either relinquish his emotion or his throne. But the hearts of men are complex creatures and cannot be reasoned with.
Relationships: Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 98





	1. My Heartbeat

_So, this is how it ends,_ Merlin thought, staring up at the sky for one final time. Amidst the plumes of smoke was a shade of blue that had become ingrained in his mind’s eye over years. His heart loosened at the memory. He closed his eyes and let his last breath mingle with the first breath of fire.   
The cries of the villagers were muffled by the laughter of the flames coughing at his feet and his eyes closed at the soft lull of Death's voice. It would be so simple to prevent darkness seizing him; but what was the point? Resting his left cheek against the wood, he inhaled sharply at the ripple of warmth that shuddered across his skin.  
There was no pain; only peace.  
After all, he'd had this coming to him since he was born. It was always going to end this way. If only he'd had the opportunity to say goodbye...  
Rope squeezed his upper arm, but Merlin didn't struggle against it, becoming dead to the world as flames consumed him, falling back into the arms of fire. But, as far as he could recall, fire didn't have flesh.  
Fingers fumbled over knots and, in the end, there was a brief agony that pierced Merlin's skin and he collapsed against a firm frame. Hair haloed with light, Arthur hoisted Merlin from the flames, holding him close to his body. His shirt sleeve had disintegrated and the flesh beneath was burned severely, but he felt nothing.  
Tears filled his eyes at the sight of Merlin's burnt skin. "Merlin? Merlin, can you hear me?" he desperately murmured, fingers brushing the warlock's forehead. "This is all my fault." His eyes flickered to meet those of the villagers as he carried Merlin from the pyre and to the safety of his horse. They stared, and their awe triggered something in him. With a cold look, the young king turned away.  
Nobody else would be dying today.  
Securing his servant’s limp form on his horse, Arthur jumped up behind him and gave the village one last look before digging his feet into the horse’s flank. It stood to attention and, almost as if comprehending the terror building in the monarch’s veins, bolted. The wind cut through Arthur’s damaged arm like the sword he’d considered putting to the throats of those who had harmed Merlin – but he wasn’t his father.  
Brow furrowed and lips clamped shut, Arthur leaned over Merlin’s body as a makeshift shelter from the wind, knuckles whitening around the reins. Clouds had rolled in and behind a grey mask was a pink flush; mingling with the blood of a blue cut in the sky as the sun set beyond. It was meant to have been an evening to escape the constraints of kingship and duty – the picnic hamper was still bouncing on the horse’s rear, cutlery clattering. Arthur had taken his eyes off his manservant for one minute, entrusting him with the collection of firewood to cook the cheese that the king had spread out on a blanket. His jaw locked at the recollection of leaving it there.  
A ragged breathing pattern pounded against the king's torso, desperately assuring him Merlin was alive for the moment – but Arthur couldn’t be certain how long that would last. Heat was radiating from Merlin’s burns and the king glanced down at his servant’s disfigured face before looking straight ahead. It hadn’t been difficult, understanding the cause for Merlin being tied to a stake, particularly when the villagers had called the servant the devil’s spawn. But nobody deserved such a death.  
He’d seen it, as a boy, many times; he’d always felt detached from it, from himself, as if the punishment was too horrific to truly be happening. When he’d seen it happen to Merlin, he had truly believed a villager had run him through with a sword where he stood. But his body was largely undamaged, unlike Merlin’s.  
Arthur wondered if Merlin’s heart was as damaged as his was.   
He rode through the sunset, ignorant of the potential danger of bandits. His focus was entirely narrowed on Merlin and he allowed his breath to match the rhythm of hooves on stone as he pressed himself against his servant.  
Body weary, Arthur pushed on, relief washing over him like fire as he thundered into the courtyard of Camelot castle. Exhaustion weighed down his limbs and the king fell from his horse, catching Merlin in his arms as the latter slid from the animal and stirred a little.  
"Arthur!"  
Gwen was hurrying down the steps, lifted skirts billowing in her haste. She dropped down by him, frantically touching his face, the cool metal of her wedding ring knocking his cheekbone before her concern fluttered to Merlin, draped in Arthur's arms.  
"What...?"  
"I don't know," Arthur answered wearily, feeling himself slipping closer and closer to Merlin. "I don't know," he whispered, slumping on the ground with his eyes closed.

  
*

Gold filtered through Arthur's lashes and he sleepily stirred, hand automatically searching for the warmth of Merlin's body. A crushing weight of panic dropped upon him at the realisation that Merlin was not draped over him in attempt to haul him from bed, was not talking to him idly as he opened the curtains, was not sneaking sausages from Arthur’s breakfast.  
The only company was the dust that spiralled through the wound of sunlight between haphazardly drawn drapes.  
Sliding from his bed, Arthur tugged a shirt over his head -- wincing as it brushed his bandaged arm -- and emerged from his bedroom, immediately crashing into Gwaine. The two disentangled themselves from each other and Gwaine offered his apologies, though it might have been something else; Arthur found it difficult to understand what the knight was saying through the apple in his mouth.  
"Where's Merlin?" interrupted the king, thinly veiled desperation lacing every syllable.  
Gwaine removed the apple, taking a large bite. "He's with Gaius," he said between crunches. "He looked pretty bad when--"  
Arthur was already striding straight there.  
He gathered himself together just before reaching the door of the physician's chambers, evening his breathing and hiding his shaking hands by clasping them together. Moving towards the door, he hesitated. Composure was crucial -- and currently lacking. He paced up and down the stretch of wall either side of the entrance, preparing himself for the worst and mentally running through the stages of his official reaction. Not bothering to knock, he barged in.  
"How is he?"  
Gaius merely raised an eyebrow at Arthur's sudden appearance, continuing to mix his concoction. "He hasn't woken yet."  
"Will he?"  
"I should think so, sire."  
Arthur opened his mouth, mulling over what he was about to propose. "I want Merlin to be moved into my chambers. He will be much more comfortable, and he will not be getting under your feet."  
"Sire, I--"  
"I insist. I can take him there," Arthur added, swallowing his emotion. He only needed to pretend for a little longer. "Where is he?"  
Gaius gestured to the small set of steps and Arthur gingerly walked up them, pushing open Merlin's door. The servant was slumped against the wall, left side of his face a leathery texture that danced in the sunlight, dark lashes stroking his high cheekbones.  
Tentatively tugging back the blankets, Arthur immediately averted his eyes as they fell upon a naked torso. A blush flooded his cheeks and he couldn't help it; he looked back. Though it felt wrong to be ogling Merlin when he was in this state, the king couldn't help himself. Careful not to brush the jagged line where the flames had caressed the skin along his side, Arthur scooped up his servant and held him close to his chest, touching his lips to Merlin’s temple in an act of defiance.  
"Sire?"  
Starting so fiercely that he almost dropped Merlin and his heart pounding, the young king turned to the door, trying in vain to squash the fear. It tore open the careful stitching that contained his emotions and his voice cracked as he spoke. "Lancelot. I would appreciate it if you knocked next time."  
"Apologies, sire." The knight hesitated, advancing with his hand unconsciously on the hilt of his sword. "Where are you taking him?" he apprehensively asked.  
Instantly picking up on the implication of Lancelot's concern, Arthur held Merlin closer to his chest, pulse calming as the servant stirred. "I am not taking him to the cells. Just, please--" His facade crumbled as he felt a sudden ebb in Merlin's life, tugging at his own heart. "--allow me to be alone with him."  
Lancelot moved from the doorway, his wedding ring catching the light as he shifted. "Do you need help carrying him?"  
Imperceptibly, Arthur shook his head and pushed through the door, clutching Merlin tightly all the way to his chambers. Upon his entrance, even the sun bowed its head in the face of Merlin's dire condition, shadowing Gaius, who had arrived with a bowl of paste. Noticing the physician after carefully lying the servant on the bed, the king swallowed. His cracking mask wasn't going to hold out for much longer and, wordlessly, he took the bowl into his own hands. Nodding at the given instructions, he turned away and towards Merlin.  
Hand on the door, Gaius watched Arthur draw up a chair and seat himself beside the warlock, scooping out the paste with his fingers. Then, he withdrew. There were some occasions when it was best for emotions to heal before wounds.  
Gingerly, Arthur traced the peeling skin with his fingers, trying to push all energy into action, not thought. Because he couldn't afford to think about Merlin being a sorcerer. He couldn't afford to think about how his heart had halted in its duty when he'd seen Merlin tied to that stake. He couldn't afford to think about what would happen if Merlin didn't wake up. Inevitably, though, his mind was unwilling to listen to reason. Recognising that his temper would get the better of him if he was interrupted, Arthur set down the paste and crossed the room, locking his door.  
Then he returned to Merlin. Like he always did.  
With each touch, he allowed a thought to form. A clear, concise point. The first: Merlin being a sorcerer. Hesitating to stare into the sun, Arthur momentarily closed his eyes. There had always been something about Merlin, something that he couldn't quite put his finger on, something that had drawn Arthur to him like the young knights to an elite. Of course, he'd never imagined it to be magic. Opening his eyes with a frown, the king ran his fingers along Merlin's left cheekbone, lathering the paste onto his skin.  
It was a gentle pressure that was applied, far too little to force Merlin to stir, but the delicacy stirred something in Arthur. The second thought: he cared for Merlin more than a man should. He cared for him despite the magic, despite the, the, the _perversion--_  
Self-disgust tore at his heart. His father would not have wanted this. No alliance could be formed from marrying a servant, let alone his manservant. Arthur took a deep breath, retracting his hand as a weight rose from his shoulders. His confession was finally free; Merlin was what tethered him to Camelot. Too many times had considered climbing onto his horse and fleeing, just to escape the suffocating hold of his destiny. Arthur's hands moved to Merlin's torso, following the trail of the subtly toned muscles, skittering across the faint pulse in the servant's chest.  
The third thought: what he would do if Merlin didn't wake up.  
At this, he unconsciously leaned closer, wishing desperately that he had magic of his own to heal what meant so much to him. At this, he pressed his fingers to Merlin's chest, willing a heartbeat, willing a fight. At this, he slid from the chair to kneel at Merlin's beside.  
At this, a determined resolve defined him; Merlin was not going to fade from him today.


	2. The Weight of Destiny

"Arthur, Merlin can't be helped if you lock him in your room!"  
Starting, Arthur's head snapped up and he cursed at the taut agony that tore through his neck. He'd fallen asleep with his head on the bed, leaning forwards, and he was paying for it now. Blearily, he looked towards the window. Dawn had begun, taking steadying breaths as it exposed itself to the world. The inflammation scattered across Merlin's body had weakened overnight, but his skin was still dappled with painful blisters. He still hadn't woken.  
Partially to stretch out his muscles, and partially to calm the anxiety flooding him, Arthur began pacing the length of his chambers, ignoring the calls of his friends outside. He would open the door when he had decided how to behave towards his servant in front of others. Ideally, mild concern would be what Arthur went for; but he'd already blown any chance of that the day before.  
A noise.  
Arthur, torn from his pacing, looked to his right and dared to hold his breath as Merlin shifted slightly. The servant's burns pressed into the pillow and he moaned, triggering movement from the young king.  
Inches from the bed, Arthur hesitated, pulling himself together. Indifference was what anchored him; he couldn't allow his emotions to overcome him. He sat down on the bed, careful not to brush Merlin's legs, and started as his friend loudly moaned, his fingers seeking out those of another being.  
"It's okay," Arthur whispered, locking his fingers between Merlin's. "I have you here, you're with me. Anyone who touches you will be a head short," he promised. "You don't need to worry about a thing."  
"Arthur! Percival's threatening to break the door down--"  
Gwen was clearly becoming more and more frantic and, not wanting to risk the possibility of Merlin waking when a door crashed into him, Arthur carefully disentagled his fingers and squashed the implications of longing for the warmth again, unlocking the door.  
Stood on the other side were the knights and Gwen, her waist claimed by Lancelot's hand. She was holding a small wooden bowl of the paste, and looked up at Arthur with red-rimmed eyes. He had forgotten that Merlin was central to the lives of all stood opposite him; an unofficial knight of Camelot. Instinctively, Arthur glanced over his shoulder, eyes absorbing the delicate light that bathed Merlin's lifeless body. Then, almost reluctantly, he stepped aside and allowed a flood to pass by him, slipping away from the room and to the meeting he was late for.

Arthur's council was arguing around him and he turned his head to beckon Merlin closer to him, only to realise that a shadow wasn't being cast over the table because his servant wasn't stood there to cast one. His jaw set and he stood, kicking his throne to the side. He had a duty to fight the battles of those too weak to do so themselves -- and, now, that was Merlin.  
"Enough!" he shouted, eyes flashing. "I am not saying that people will accept the lift on the ban on magic overnight. I understand that some wounds run deep--" Like Merlin's, which would likely never fade. "--and we have been at war with sorcery for over two decades. But what is the biggest threat we face?"  
"Invasion," offered one councillor.  
"On a regular basis," Arthur clarified, awaiting an adapted response. When one didn't come, he answered himself, sharply. "Sorcery. Revenge plots from those who lost loved ones in the Great Purge, wanting to topple the kingdom we have built. I am prepared to give a royal pardon to all of those who were executed under my father's persecution of sorcerers, and no longer outlaw magic, to finally achieve peace. Is that not what we strive for? Peace?"  
"Yes, but, sire, the consequences of such an act--"  
"Would be to lessen the damage caused by my father," Arthur cut across, staring down the speaker. "We shall meet again tomorrow to discuss the proceedings, and I expect full loyalty from my council."  
With that, he swept from the room, hauling himself up stairs until he was brutally hit by the wind trying to topple the battlements. Running his hands along the stone, Arthur surveyed the town below with a sense of removal. He'd used to come up here as a boy to hide from his father, or whenever he needed to escape the crushing weight of expectations and destiny. He'd lost count of how many sunsets he'd witnessed from such a height -- but not one of them had been with Merlin. Swinging his legs over a gap in the battlements, Arthur sat on the stone, hands planted either side of him for balance. Whenever Arthur had been up in the battlements, in recent years, watching the sun sink below the horizon, Merlin had been undertaking countless chores.  
Arthur had never considered that Merlin might have some crushing weight to cope with. Had he known, his armour could have easily been polished outside. Below, his subjects were going about their daily business, unaware of the monstrous change coming their way. Bitterly, Arthur studied them, envying the simplicity of their existence. He would take Merlin, he decided, setting his jaw. If the council vehemently opposed legalising magic, Arthur would take Merlin to an isolated cottage with the knights, take him to safety. But if the knights no longer trusted Merlin...  
Adjusting his position so one knee was pulled up to his chest, contorting his body to fit in the gap in the stone, Arthur pushed his head back. If the knights no longer trusted Merlin, he'd relinquish his crown. Merlin needed protecting. But does he? Contemplating the prospect, Arthur watched the wind lazily ripple through the grass before it crawled up his leg. If Merlin was a sorcerer, he'd be more than capable of protecting himself. It certainly explained why the servant had managed to survive every battle, with no training to his name.  
When Merlin woke up, Arthur would make him a knight. That way, he'd be a nobleman, and, legally, Arthur would be able to marr--  
Startled by his own thought process, the king nearly fell off the battlements. With a shake of his head, he dismissed the prospect as momentary madness. He had always promised himself that he'd marry for the security of the kingdom, or love, and marrying Merlin did not come into either category.  
"My Lord?"  
Arthur turned, sparing the knight a smile. "Leon. What is it?"  
"It's Merlin, sire. He's awake."  
"Is he asking for me?" Arthur abruptly said, scrambling down from the battlements.  
A furrowed look of confusion passed over Leon's face. "No, my Lord. Gaius thought it best to inform you, that's all." He caught sight of Arthur's tight expression. "Are you alright?"  
"How would you feel if magic was no longer outlawed?"  
Taken aback, Leon hesitated. "I owe my life to magic. If I hadn't drunk from the Cup of Life..." Leon trailed off, glancing down at himself, the rest of his sentence hanging heavy in the air. "If you believe it is the right decision, Arthur, I would follow you with it."  
Nodding slowly, Arthur folded his arms. "And the other knights?"  
"Their loyalty to themselves is second to their loyalty to yours. And any who feel it compromises their own values will leave. Why do you ask, sire?"  
Arthur opened his mouth, before thinking better of it. It was not his secret to tell. "No reason. Thank you, Leon, that will be all."  
With a inclination of his head, Leon withdrew. Staring up at the changing sky, Arthur waited until the rain started to trickle down his skin before retreating inside. He slowly made his way through shadowed corridors, growing sense of dread bubbling within him, halting when his palm touched the wood of his own door. Gently, he pushed it open.  
Merlin was propped up against what appeared to be all the pillows in Arthur's chambers, a steaming mug in his hands, shirtless. His eyes were even brighter against the damaged skin, and droplets of perspiration beaded his forehead, shining like a crown in the sudden sunlight. Arthur had to hold himself up with the door before taking a deep breath and entering his chambers, jaw clamped shut.  
"Believe me, I'm going to be as careful as I can not to spill anything on your sheets," Merlin weakly joked, trying to pull them up to conceal his torso.  
"No, don't do that," Arthur quietly said, daring to step closer. "You'll aggravate your burns."  
Merlin dropped the sheets and Arthur took several steps back, striding from the room immediately. He couldn't bear to look at his servant.


	3. Unsaid

Merlin could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen Arthur cry.  
So, naturally, it was a surprise to see the king sat on a marble staircase, hidden by a sweeping bannister, with his face buried in his hands. Limping towards him, Merlin reached out with his hands to break his inevitable fall. The warlock closed his eyes as he collided with the stairs, the burned side of his face twisting in a fleeting agony.  
"Merlin?"  
Mustering a weak smile, Merlin struggled to sit up. "Yes, sire?"  
Arthur looked up opened his mouth to speak, but his voice failed him.  
Then, he pulled Merlin in. His fingers tightly gripped him; just for the reassurance that this was no illusion; and the king broke down again -- though now with relief. And though his servant shied away from the light filtered through the stained glass, it was still Merlin.  
"So, we are going for the hug now?" mumbled Merlin against Arthur's neck.  
Clearing his throat, Arthur pushed Merlin gently off him, looking down at his hands. "Just this once," he gruffly said, refusing to raise his gaze. Instead, he raised his body, scuffing Merlin's ankle with his foot after he had stood up. "Next time we go out, don't wander off. I've known you to do some stupid things over the years, but getting yourself tied to a stake outranks them all."  
Before Merlin managed to form a reply, Arthur had disappeared. He stared blankly ahead, trying to summon the energy to move away from the scene where the king's tears were still gathered in precious pools on the stairs. He couldn't dismiss the expression that had been dominating Arthur's gaze, and he suppressed the agonising urge to tear at his damaged skin in an attempt to numb the guilt. He knew he shouldn't have wandered off -- even though it was difficult not to when collecting firewood -- and he should never have tried conjuring a rose to surreptitiously allow to fall in with the wood when he returned to Arthur.  
Merlin rested his forehead on his clasped hands, as if in prayer, and closed his eyes. Sleep was calling him, but, having found himself in Arthur's bed earlier, he was unsure of where to return -- besides, he didn't have the strength to move from the stairs after pursuing Arthur. He had fallen asleep at the base of these stairs, waiting for Arthur, several years ago. But that had been with the knowledge that Arthur, his idiotic Arthur, was just on the other side of the door, inevitably cursing the agony that kneeling for the duration of the night brought. Now there was just the echoing of servants' footsteps and the distant whinnies of horses through the tall windows to keep him company.  
Through the windows, the sky shone a magnificent blue amidst the dying light, clouds imitating the surf along the vast coast, where he had once accompanied Arthur for a day of escape, beneath the shade of the cliffs. They hadn't been since Uther had died.  
"Merlin?" The warlock looked up as Lancelot offered him a hand. "Arthur told me to escort you back to his chambers. I hope you haven't landed yourself in more trouble."  
Accepting the hand given, Merlin swayed a little on his feet. "Did it look like I was in trouble?"  
Lancelot quietly laughed. "You know that you're the only one who can really read him. He seemed either angry or worried, and there was a lot of tension in your name. Take from that what you will." The eyebrows drew in, mirth fading from the knight's face. "How are you feeling?"  
Merlin shrugged. He'd burdened Lancelot with one of his secrets; he wasn't going to allow him to be the keeper of another. "Tired. How's Gwen?"  
Hauling Merlin's uninjured arm across his shoulders, Lancelot slowly shuffled in the direction of Arthur's chambers. "Better now that you're up. Though she will probably drop by to tie you to the bed because being up and awake doesn't necessarily mean up and about. What happened to you?"  
Hesitating, Merlin forced a smile as they reached Arthur's door. "Just a very violent misunderstanding, that's all."

Arthur was, once again, sat on the battlements. He was hoping -- in vain -- that the wind would whisper to him what to do, but it had been irritatingly silent as of yet. Now that Merlin was awake, he didn't have to concern himself with finding a new servant. That, Arthur had firmly covinced himself, had been the reason for his questionable emotional state. Hiring staff was always a nightmare, and Merlin had always been loyal -- even if he had a habit of challenging authority.  
But now Merlin was out of danger, Arthur had to make a decision.  
He desperately wanted to lift the ban on magic, but magic had destroyed both of his parents...yet it had made Merlin. And there was nothing evil in Merlin. There couldn't be evil in Merlin. If there was, then Arthur had to accept that humanity itself was fundamentally evil and without hope.  
Arthur fell backwards onto the grass, a small of puff of breath condensing in the silent surroundings. The wet soil pressed into his back, staining his white shirt, and he covered his face with his hands, blocking out the sun that shone as the fire reflected in Merlin's eyes when Arthur had found him tied to a stake. In a sudden fit of frustration, Arthur tore off the bandage covering his forearm, exposing the blistered skin to the soft wind. Knowing he should leave it be, but tempted all the same, the young king dragged a finger along the wound.  
Closing his eyes, he could feel Merlin's skin beneath his paste-covered fingers, feel the rise and fall of the servant's chest beneath the layer of agony, feel the curve of his unbroken ribs. He had savoured the moments alone with him -- overshadowed by concern, of course, which was why he was only realising now how much he had savoured the time -- because there had been nobody to interrupt the silence, least of all Merlin, lying in a state of complete unconsciousness. Merlin in a state of complete unconsciousness had been bliss; Arthur never had the opportunity to confront him about lying to him, and there had been no need for anger if there was no chance of confrontation. He knew he should feel anger, intense anger at the concealment of Merlin's identity -- as he had felt towards his father when the truth about Morgana had been revealed. Yet the only true anger he felt was towards the villagers who had encircled Merlin like a pack of wild animals closing in on wounded prey.  
Arthur violently kicked out at the wall, scuffing the toes of his boot and inflicting momentary injury. In the second of pain, his mind cleared and his resolve set. Then it was gone again. He opened his eyes to fix his gaze on the wound decorating his arm, observing it with a resigned sense of detachment. Time would heal it, that much he knew, but Merlin's? Shutting out the world once again, the servant's face floated in the king's mind. There had been resignation painted across his face in the shadows cast by flames, a hopelessness that had bound him more tightly to the wood than the rope Arthur had torn him from. The young king remained where he was, lying on the wet grass and shielded by the brutal wind, until the sun had begun to drift towards the horizon.  
When he finally moved, the whole castle was dripping with blood from the last light of day, the torches within not yet lit. But Arthur had started exploring the castle from the time he could walk; he knew every turn and every corridor by the chips in the stone, the varying coolness of the surfaces, the state of whatever strange substance bound the whole structure together. He returned to his chambers just as the first fires were creeping along the walls, threatening to consume him with their darkness.  
Merlin was sat on his bed, reading a book Arthur had stowed away in his wardrobe since becoming the monarch. There was a ghostly smile playing on his mouth and, struck, Arthur leaned against the doorframe. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his manservant so relaxed -- or without his shoes on.  
"You have a lot of respect for my bed, then?" Arthur said, almost allowing a short burst of laughter to escape at the expression on Merlin's face as he registered his presence.  
"Some poor soul has to clean it," responded Merlin, cautiously breaking into a grin.  
Arthur looked towards the window, watching the last of the light dissipate. "Could you actually read?"  
"Not all of us are illiterate."  
Sparing Merlin a half-venomous look, Arthur retrieved a tinderbox and threw it to Merlin. "I meant I was surprised you could see the words. Light some candles; you'll be able to see better."  
Realising that he was wet through, Arthur moved towards his wardrobe and pulled out new clothes, stepping behind the screen to get changed. The distinct sound of flint colliding dominated the silence, but no illumination followed. Tugging on a fresh pair of trousers, Arthur peered around the screen to check on Merlin. The servant was striking the flint, flinching each time sparks flew. The wooden splint below caught fire and, dropping the tools, Merlin reached out a trembling hand to carry the splint to a candle. His fingers wrapped around the end before the small flames began to sprint towards them and, panicking, he dropped it on the table.  
Instinctively, Arthur seized a jug of water and began to articulate a familiar phrase: "You complete--" Hastily, he cut himself off, noticing how Merlin cowered from the flames. Quenching the light with the water, Arthur turned to Merlin, just visible in the growing darkness. "Here, give it to me," he gently instructed.  
Hands shaking, Merlin passed the tinderbox to Arthur, their fingers momentarily touching before Arthur felt Merlin sway beside him. His hand jumped to the servant's arm, forming a tight band around the limb in a determined effort to keep him upright. Wordlessly, he set down the tinderbox and guided Merlin towards the bed, squinting at the shadows.  
"Have you eaten anything?"  
In the growing light of the moon, Merlin turned his head towards the table, where a bowl sat. "No. Lancelot--Lancelot said that you hadn't been sleeping much. And you're the king. You need the strength more than I do."  
Satisfied that Merlin wasn't going to fall off the bed, Arthur returned to the tinderbox. "Merlin. I have the palace kitchens at my disposal. If I wanted a snack, I could go and wake up any of the staff and threaten them with an alternative bed in the cells and they'd scramble up to cook a three-course meal in a matter of seconds." Pausing to light a candle, Arthur peered at the contents of the bowl and pulled a face. "You wait there," he commanded, moving the light further from Merlin as reassurance that it couldn't hurt him before disappearing through the door.  
Merlin, warily watching the flickering candle, leaned against the pillows in a sudden stroke of exhaustion and confusion. He'd only been conscious for a matter of hours, yet it seemed like he'd been up since dawn. With one last suspicious look towards the candle, he closed his eyes, seeing his thoughts instead of his surroundings. He could still feel Arthur's fingers around his arm, pressing into his wounds, a thinly-veiled aggression concealed what had -- hopefully -- been painful concern.  
With his eyes still closed, Merlin tugged his shirt over his head. In the absence of the thin shield, his burns seethed silently and he fell further back, losing all sense of time. The next thing he was aware of was Arthur violently shaking him, calling his name loudly enough to wake the dead -- which Merlin could only presume he had been trying to do.  
"Wake up!"  
"You could be more creative," mumbled Merlin, yawning as he opened his eyes. Sitting up, he registered Arthur's facial expression. "Hang on -- were you worried about me?"  
All but jumping off the bed, Arthur cleared his throat. "No. Of course not. I was checking to see if the bed was already occupied."  
He remained silent has he illuminated the room, sending firelight glittering on the glass panes of the windows. Merlin, as much as flames had always enchanted him, kept his gaze on the soft halo of light emitted by Arthur's hair; it was a softer gold than the shade he'd seen reflected in the eyes of the villagers a lifetime ago, yet he was still wary to reach out to it. As Arthur turned, Merlin hastily averted his gaze to the table, where a feast lay.  
"What's all this?"  
Arthur glanced over his shoulder with a slight frown. "Even you, Merlin, cannot be that idiotic. What does it look like?"  
"If you're eating all of that," Merlin remarked, "I might need to put two more holes in your belt."  
Instinctively snatching a cushion from the windowsill, Arthur hurled it at the servant's head. "It's for both of us, you clotpole."  
"That's my word," mumbled Merlin.  
Arthur's eyes were on him and, conscious of the fact he was without a shirt, he reached for the extravagant woven throw covering the bed, wrapping it around his shoulders like a cloak. It was soft from years of use, the threads of the fringing frayed. It smelt of Arthur. Uncertainly, he raised his eyes to glance over at Arthur, opening his mouth. Abruptly, he shut it again, before summoning the courage to speak as Arthur cleared his desk and began to drag it over to the bed.  
"You know, Gaius is probably wondering where I am."  
Arthur paused in his task, lifting his head. "Gaius knows that you're staying here. I've got more space and can do a lot of my duties from here. Gaius has to go all over the castle, Gwen is busy with her work and Lancelot, and I am not lumbering some poor innocent with you. And that's settled."  
As Arthur returned to dragging the desk across the room, Merlin quietly spoke again. "There's always the cells."  
"And why on earth would I put you there?" grunted Arthur, giving the desk one final shove.  
Merlin shrugged, avoiding eye contact. "It is the usual punishment for getting in trouble."  
"Merlin. You were almost burned alive. I think that's punishment enough." Running a hand through his hair, the king moved the food from the table to the desk, leaving the candles where they were. Then, he grabbed a chair from the corner of the room, depositing it on the other side of the desk before throwing himself in it. "Well, go on, then. Eat."  
Suspiciously looking towards Arthur, Merlin inched closer towards the table, crossing his legs. "With that tone, I might leave the meat alone."  
"It's not rat."  
"And how would you know, having never needed to prepare food in your life?" challenged the servant, throwing a few slabs of cheese and bread onto a plate. He paused, hand hovering over the food, as he watched the king move to fill his own plate. "Arthur..."  
Arthur glanced up from the food, registering the uncertainty in the pronunciation of his name. "What? Did you want something to drink? I've got wine, but I can get you something warm if you'd like--"  
"No, it's your arm. You're hurt." His hand closed gently around Arthur's wrist as he studied the wounds in the flickering firelight -- the blackened wounds identical to his own. "Did you pull me out?"  
"Of course," Arthur simply said, looking directly at Merlin. "Of course."  
Merlin was silent for a moment. Then, losing sight of everything but the fact that Arthur, his Arthur, was hurt -- because of him -- he sat up a little straighter and closed his eyes. " _Þurhhæle dolgbenn_ ," he murmured, pushing all of his strength into healing Arthur.  
When he opened his eyes, his hand dropped. Arthur had pulled in his arm and was staring at the newly-healed burns with clear wonder. "You do have magic."  
"Only...for you," Merlin whispered as sudden darkness descended.


	4. Miracles and Misdemeanours

When Merlin stirred, Arthur was still asleep. The candles had burnt out and natural light streamed through the open curtains, baptising the king, who was slumped in a chair beside the bed, in a pool of gold. Pushing himself into a sitting position, Merlin untangled the throw and resumed its position of cloaking his shoulders, twisting his hands in the material to prevent him scratching his burns. Slowly, he turned his head to watch Arthur, eyes raking every inch of his body in a restless manner only reserved for brief snatches of pleasure when his peace could be disturbed at any given moment. His gaze, as it always did, flitted to Arthur's chest at regular intervals, just to check it was still rising and falling in a steady pattern.  
Then his gaze fell to the healed burns on the king's forearm.  
Heart dropping in sudden comprehension, Merlin scrambled from the bed and staggered towards the door, tugging at the handle. It was locked. Despite the newborn adrenaline coursing through him, his legs collapsed under his own weight and he fell against the door. From his new perspective, he could see the key around Arthur's neck, dimly catching the light -- but it seemed as far as Mercia from his position on the floor. Defeated, he closed his eyes.  
He'd revealed his magic to Arthur. Arthur, who had endured so much loss at the hand of magic. Arthur, who was loyal to his father, and the Camelot he had inherited. The Camelot without magic.  
When he opened his eyes again, they landed on Arthur's sword, abandoned on the table. Then they were drawn to Arthur standing over him.  
"What on earth are you doing over here? Last time I checked, you were out cold on the bed."  
"You locked the door," Merlin observed, swallowing.  
"I did. Because people have no sense of privacy these days." Arthur spared Merlin a long, hard look. "I don't think you're in a fit state to move." Unconsciously, he rotated his healed forearm. "Last night really took it out of you."  
Wordlessly, Merlin unsteadily rose, walking towards the table and allowing the throw around his shoulders to drop. He could feel Arthur's eyes on the blisters spread across his skin like a disease, but kept his face turned away. "You know I didn't have a choice. I had to conceal it. I had to able to watch you become the king Camelot needed, the king you were always meant to be. Your father fought against magic, bitterly, from the day you were born." His fingers traced the pattern on the sword's hilt. "And you always wanted to make him proud."  
Arthur's hand clenched into a fist as he took a deep breath. "I have fought so many battles, Merlin. So many. But the single one I can't seem to fight, let alone win, is you."  
Swallowing, Merlin looked down, taking the sword from the table. "You don't have to fight me," he quietly said. "I won't fight you. I can't fight you." He held the weapon by the blade, offering the hilt to the king. "You should have left me to die back in that village, but it's not too late--" His voice cracked as he raised his eyes, mangled layers of skin catching the light. "--it's not too late to do the right thing."  
"Merlin...what...?" Comprehension dawning, Arthur snatched the sword from the servant's hand as he registered the blood dripping from the latter's palm. He threw it behind him, eyes blazing as he forced himself to remain still. "You idiot, the last thing you need is an injured hand. How are you going to clean my armour?"  
"You mean you're not going to execute me?"  
It was Arthur's turn to swallow. "Never," he rasped. Then, he seemed to shake the emotion weighing him down and turn instead to practicality, tearing a strip of fabric from his shirt. He caught sight of Merlin wincing and hesitated. "What is it?"  
"Somebody has to mend that," Merlin weakly explained, averting his gaze to dab at the blood collecting in his palm.  
Arthur pulled at the strip of fabric, tearing off a length and folding it up. Almost reluctantly, he approached Merlin and pressed the wad of material onto the warlock's wound. "Severe burns weren't enough for you, then?"  
"No." Merlin moved to pull his hand away, but Arthur's fingers closed around his wrist, keeping him where he was. "You should have left me."  
"If this is you trying to squirm out of your duties because you're worried that, now I know you have magic, I'll assign you twice the amount of chores to complete, it's not going to work. You are doomed, Merlin; you will be simultaneously cleaning out the horses and polishing my armour," Arthur lightly replied, pressing down on the wound, stopping when he heard Merlin sharply inhale.  
The blood had soaked through the material and was staining Arthur's fingertips. He removed the cloth and tore another strip from his shirt, putting his other hand to Merlin's back and sinking to the floor with him. The burns on his servant's back maliciously stroked his skin but Arthur didn't recoil at the unnatural texture, instead pressing down on Merlin's open wound with the new cloth.  
He kept his eyes carefully trained on the wound as he spoke. "How long have you been learning magic?"  
"I was born with it."  
Arthur hesitated. "And I was born because of it. Keep applying pressure to that," he instructed, nodding to the material and standing.  
"I am in training to be a physician; I do know how to treat a wound," Merlin defended, but following the order all the same.  
"Yet apparently not how to avoid them," commented Arthur, reaching for an empty jug and pausing at the door as he unlocked it. "You stay right there, or I will execute you."  
Just to be safe, he locked Merlin in.  
Camelot had stirred hours ago; Arthur's subjects were creating a human maze in the lower town and, had they not recognised him and parted like animals faced with flames, he would have struggled to fight his way through to collect water. Impatiently, he waited in line, reminding himself that Merlin was not going to die from a mere cut -- if anything was going to kill him, it would have been everything he'd already been through. Still, Arthur was regretting his decision to leave Merlin alone in his weak condition and on the verge of returning when he suddenly found himself at the front of the queue. Hastily, he pulled the lever and filled the jug, returning to Merlin.  
When he unlocked the door, Merlin was struggling to finish a phrase. "Þurhhæle licsar--Þurhhæle--"  
The strip of material lay, abandoned, on the floor, and Merlin looked like he was fighting to keep his eyes open. He'd fallen further down against the wall, now almost horizontal, and Arthur dropped to his knees. "Stop it. You don't have the energy." He moved to take Merlin's wrist, to halt the proceedings, and the skin burned at his touch. Assuming a calm front to shield his frantic desire to summon Gaius, Arthur raised his hand to Merlin's forehead. "As if we didn't have enough to deal with already, Merlin. You had to go and get a fever."  
"I think the universe is trying to tell you something," Merlin weakly replied, hand dropping onto Arthur's knee.  
"Oh, give it a rest, Merlin," grunted the king, hauling Merlin's arm across his shoulders and all but dragging him to the bed.  
Once he'd propped Merlin up on the cushions, he poured the jug of water on the wound, ripped off another strip from his shirt and tied it around Merlin's hand. Crossing the room, he pulled out a fresh shirt from the wardrobe and went to take off his ruined one, stopped by the sound of his servant's voice.  
"Of course. I'm dying and the need for an outfit change is greater than my life."  
Despite the underlying panic, Arthur couldn't help but smile, concealing it as he tugged the shirt over his head. "You're not dying, Merlin," he said, shaping an exasperated tone to put both him and Merlin at ease. Returning to his servant, he folded up the ruined shirt and dunked it in the jug of water, wringing it before placing it on Merlin's forehead. "I won't be long. Just--" He lowered his voice. "No magic. Otherwise you will be in the cells."  
Merlin closed his eyes. "Sire."  
With one last look, Arthur closed the door and made for the chambers on the other side of the castle, breaking into a panicked stride. When he reached the desired door, he knocked sharply just the once and pushed it open, hastily scanning the surroundings. Light refracted, distorting his vision, and it wasn't until someone spoke that he realised he wasn't alone.  
"Arthur? What is it?" Lancelot asked, stepping from behind the screen and drawing the strings of his shirt.  
Arthur stepped into the room, rolling up his sleeves, flushed. "I need Guinevere. Merlin's got a fever."  
"She's gone to the market but I can go and fetch her. Have you spoken to Gaius?"  
The young king hesitated. "I didn't want to trouble him." In truth, he was anxious that Gaius wouldn't have the haste to efficiently treat Merlin and continue his other duties. "But I should go and get him."  
As he moved to the door, Lancelot caught his arm. "You go back to Merlin; I can collect Gaius on my way to the market. You--" Lancelot broke off, staring at the arm he had grasped. "This definitely was not healed when I saw you last. And it could not have healed by itself in such a short space of time." He raised his eyes. "How?"  
"It doesn't matter, Merlin just--"  
"Merlin? You know about him?"  
" _You_ know?" echoed Arthur, incredulous. "How on earth--"  
"I worked it out with the Griffin, the lance was enchanted," the knight flippantly said. "But he struggles with healing, how did he--Doesn't matter." Lancelot had dropped Arthur's arm. "l'll fetch Gaius. But not Gwen. Not yet. You go back to Merlin, keep him cool."  
Merlin, when Arthur burst into his chambers, was lying on the floor.  
"I told you to stay put!" Arthur cried, reaching the end of his tether.  
Merlin opened one eye wearily. "Not this time, you didn't."  
"Well, I obviously implied it. What exactly were you trying to do?"  
"I realised I hadn't had anything to drink since--since the village. I was trying to reach for the water, fell off the bed, found the floor cooler than the bed. Logic demanded I stay here."  
"Logic demanded that you wait until I came back to get you the water," Arthur retorted, lifting Merlin over his shoulder and laying him on the bed.  
He poured water into a goblet and pressed the rim to Merlin's lips, tipping it slightly. Merlin's fingers touched the side to half-heartedly take the object from Arthur's grasp, though Arthur could clearly see that his servant was not going to be able to hold it without spilling it down him. And whilst that might help the fever, it would not help the dehydration. Refusing to surrender his grip, Arthur covered Merlin's fingers with his own, supporting the soft weight of the goblet, watching the regimented movement of his throat as he gulped down the water. When the goblet had been drained, Arthur went back to drenching his ruined shirt in water and shaping Merlin's frame with it, taking care to be gentle near the blistered burns.  
"You had a steaming mug the other day," the king recollected. "You didn't drink any of that?"  
"With that smell? No chance," mumbled Merlin, shivering momentarily. "Smelt worse than your socks."  
Arthur bit back a smile. "You should have pinched your nose."  
"I tried that, but the scent was too overpowering. I blame the immediate association of your socks; I could almost taste it for the rest of the day."  
This time, Arthur couldn't conceal his grin, though it was obscured by the arrival of Lancelot and Gaius.


End file.
